A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH 
AND  OTHER  VERSES 


A  LITTLE 
BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH 


AND  OTHER  VERSES 


BY 
EDWARD  SANDFORD  MARTIN 


NEW-YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1890 


Copyright,  1890,  by 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS. 


THE  DE  VINNE  PRESS. 


Inscribed 

TO 


THE    EDITOR    OF  ''THE    SUN" 


WITH    THE 

SOMEWHAT    DISQUIETING    CONSCIOUSNESS 

THAT    HE    KNOWS    POETRY 

WHEN    HE    SEES   IT 


327137 


CONTENTS. 

A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH i 

PROCUL  NEGOTIIS 3 

FUIT  ILIUM 4 

EPITHALAMIUM 6 

MEA  CULPA 10 

AGAIN 14 

SNOW-BOUND 16 

To  MABEL            18 

IN  THE  ELYSIAN  FIELDS          .               21 

A  SECOND  THOUGHT 23 

A  PRACTICAL  QUESTION          .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .25 

ET  Tu,  BERGHE! 26 

INSOMNIA 27 

CIVIL  SERVICE 28 

ALL  OR  NOTHING 31 

vii 


CONTENTS. 

A  PHILADELPHIA  CLAVERHOUSE 33 

THROWING  STONES <        •        •        •  35 

TOUCHING  BOTTOM 39 

HONI  SOIT  Qui  MAL  Y  PENSE 41 

LOCHINVAR    EX-COLORADO 44 

A  MORTIFYING  SUBJECT 47 

MIXED  .         .        .        .        •        •        •        •        •        •         •  49 

AND  WAS  HE  RIGHT? 5° 

BALLADE  OF  THE  GENERAL  TERM 51 

INFIRM • 53 

CRUMBS  AND  COMFORT 54 

ASHORE 55 

BARTER 58 

BEGGARS'  HORSES 6o 

TO-DAY 62 

OF  MISTRESS  MARTHA:  HER  EYES 63 

THE  BEST  GIFT  OF  ALL 65 

AUTUMN    ...,»»••••••••  ^7 

REMORSE 69 

HUMPTY  DUMPTY 7° 

RETIREMENT 71 

SELF-SACRIFICE 73 

WHAT  HE  WANTS  IN  His 74 

viii 


CONTENTS. 

BE  KIND  TO  THYSELF .  75 

LOST  LIGHT 76 

DATED  "FEBRUARY  THE  14™ " 78 

LOOKING  ON 80 

REVULSION ,        .        .  81 

FOLGER              ......           83 

GRANT 84 

AD  SODALES 85 


A  LITTLE  BROTHER  OF  THE  RICH 

TO  put  new  shingles  on  old  roofs ; 
To  give  old  women  wadded  skirts ; 
To  treat  premonitory  coughs 

With  seasonable  flannel  shirts ; 
To  soothe  the  stings  of  poverty 

And  keep  the  jackal  from  the  door  — 
These  are  the  works  that  occupy 
The  Little  Sister  of  the  Poor. 

She  carries,  everywhere  she  goes, 

Kind  words  and  chickens,  jams  and  coals ; 
Poultices  for  corporeal  woes, 

And  sympathy  for  downcast  souls  ; 
Her  currant  jelly  —  her  quinine, 

The  lips  of  fever  move  to  bless. 
She  makes  the  humble  sick-room  shine 

With  unaccustomed  tidiness. 


:B  ROWER    OF  THE   RICH. 


A  heart  of  hers  the  instant  twin 

And  vivid  counterpart  is  mine  ; 
I  also  serve  my  fellow-men, 

Though  in  a  somewhat  different  line. 
The  Poor,  and  their  concerns,  she  has 

Monopolized,  because  of  which 
It  falls  to  me  to  labor  as 

A  Little  Brother  of  the  Rich. 

For  their  sake  at  no  sacrifice 

Does  my  devoted  spirit  quail  ; 
I  give  their  horses  exercise  ; 

As  ballast  on  their  yachts  I  sail. 
Upon  their  Tally  Ho's  I  ride 

And  brave  the  chances  of  a  storm  ; 
I  even  use  my  own  inside 

To  keep  their  wines  and  victuals  warm. 

Those  whom  we  strive  to  benefit 

Dear  to  our  hearts  soon  grow  to  be  ; 
I  love  my  Rich,  and  I  admit 

That  they  are  very  good  to  me. 
Succor  the  Poor,  my  sisters,  I, 

While  heaven  shall  still  vouchsafe  me  health, 
Will  strive  to  share  and  mollify 

The  trials  of  abounding  wealth. 


PROCUL    NEGOTIIS. 

I    THINK  that  if  I  had  a  farm, 
I  'd  be  a  man  of  sense  ; 
And  if  the  day  was  bright  and  warm 

I  'd  sit  upon  the  fence, 
And  calmly  smoke  a  pensive  pipe 

And  think  about  my  pigs  ; 
And  wonder  if  the  corn  was  ripe  ; 
And  counsel  rhomme  qui  digs. 

And  if  the  day  was  wet  and  cold, 

I  think  I  should  admire 
To  sit,  and  dawdle  over  old 

Montaigne,  before  the  fire ; 
And  pity  boobies  who  could  lie 

And  squabble  just  for  pelf; 
And  thank  my  blessed  stars  that  I 

Was  nicely  fixed  myself. 


FUIT    ILIUM. 

WERE  you  nurtured  in  the  purple  ? 
Were  you  reared  a  pampered  pet? 
Did  a  menial  throng  encircle 

You  in  waiting  while  you  ate  ? 
When  a  baby  had  you  lockets, 

Silver  cups,  and  forks,  and  spoons  ? 
Were  there  coins  in  the  pockets 
Of  your  childhood's  pantaloons  ? 

Did  hereditary  shekels 

Make  your  sweethearts  deem  you  fair  — 
Reconcile  them  to  your  freckles 

And  your  carrot-colored  hair  ? 
In  electrifying  raiment 

Were  you  every  day  attired  ? 
Was  the  promptness  of  your  payment 

Universally  admired  ? 


FUIT   ILIUM. 

Did  your  father,  too  confiding, 

Sign  the  paper  of  his  friends  ? 
Did  his  rail  way- stock,  subsiding, 

Cease  to  pay  him  dividends  ? 
Are  his  buildings  slow  in  renting  ? 

Did  his  banker  pilfer,  slope, 
And  absconding  leave  lamenting 

Creditors  to  live  on  hope  ? 

Ere  you  dissipate  a  quarter 
Do  you  scrutinize  it  twice  ? 

Have  you  ceased  to  look  on  water- 
Drinking  as  a  nauseous  vice  ? 

Do  you  wear  your  brother's  breeches, 
Though  the  buttons  scarcely  meet  ? 

Does  the  vanity  of  riches 

Form  no  part  of  your  conceit  ? 

I  am  with  you,  fellow-pauper  ! 

Let  us  share  our  scanty  crust  — 
Burst  the  bonds  of  fiscal  torpor  — 

Go  where  beer  is  sold  on  trust ! 
Let  us,  freed  from  res  angustce, 

Seek  some  fair  Utopian  mead 
Where  the  throat  is  never  dusty, 

And  tobacco  grows,  a  weed. 

5 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

THE  marriage  bells  have  rung  their  peal, 
The  wedding  inarch  has  told  its  story. 
I  Ve  seen  her  at  the  altar  kneel 

In  all  her  stainless,  virgin/glory  ; 
She  's  bound  to  honor,  love,  obey, 

Come  joy  or  sorrow,  tears  or  laughter. 
I  watched  her  as  she  rode  away, 
And  flung  the  lucky  slipper  after. 

She  was  my  first,  my  very  first, 

My  earliest  inamorata, 
And  to  the  passion  that  I  nursed 

For  her  I  well-nigh  was  a  martyr. 
For  I  was  young  and  she  was  fair, 

And  always  bright  and  gay  and  chipper, 
And,  oh,  she  wore  such  sunlit  hair  ! 

Such  silken  stockings  !  such  a  slipper  ! 

6 


EPITHALAM1UM. 

She  did  not  wish  to  make  me  mourn  — 

She  was  the  kindest  of  God's  creatures  ; 
But  flirting  was  in  her  inborn, 

Like  brains  and  queerness  in  the  Beechers. 
I  do  not  fear  your  heartless  flirt, 

Obtuse  her  dart  and  dull  her  probe  is ; 
But  when  girls  do  not  mean  to  hurt, 

But  do  —  Orate  tune  pro  nobis  ! 

A  most  romantic  country  place  ; 

The  moon  at  full,  the  month  of  August ; 
An  inland  lake  across  whose  face 

Played  gentle  zephyrs,  ne'er  a  raw  gust. 
Books,  boats  and  horses  to  enjoy, 

The  which  was  all  our  occupation  ; 
A  damsel  and  a  callow  boy  — 

There  !  now  you  have  the  situation. 

We  rode  together  miles  and  miles, 

My  pupil  she,  and  I  her  Chiron  ; 
At  home  I  revelled  in  her  smiles 

And  read  her  extracts  out  of  Byron. 
We  roamed  by  moonlight,  chose  our  stars 

(I  thought  it  most  authentic  billing), 
Explored  the  woods,  climbed  over  bars, 

Smoked  cigarettes  and  broke  a  shilling. 


EPITHALAMIUM. 

An  infinitely  blissful  week 

Went  by  in  this  Arcadian  fashion  ; 
I  hesitated  long  to  speak, 

But  ultimately  breathed  my  passion. 
She  said  her  heart  was  not  her  own ; 

She  said  she  'd  love  me  like  a  sister ; 
She  cried  a  little  (not  alone), 

I  begged  her  not  to  fret,  and  —  kissed  her. 

I  lost  some  sleep,  some  pounds  in  weight, 

A  deal  of  time  and  all  my  spirits, 
And  much,  how  much  I  dare  not  state 

I  mused  upon  that  damsel's  merits. 
I  tortured  my  unhappy  soul, 

I  wished  I  never  might  recover ; 
I  hoped  her  marriage  bells  might  toll 

A  requiem  for  her  faithful  lover. 

And  now  she  's  married,  now  she  wears 

A  wedding  ring  upon  her  finger; 
And  I  —  although  it  odd  appears  — 

Still  in  the  flesh  I  seem  to  linger. 
Lo,  there  my  swallow-tail,  and  here 

Lies  by  my  side  a  wedding  favor ; 
Beside  it  stands  a  mug  of  beer, 

I  taste  it  —  how  divine  its  flavor ! 


EPITHALAMWM. 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  dress 

Stand  pure  and  lovely  at  the  altar ; 
I  heard  her  firm  response  —  that  "  Yes," 

Without  a  quiver  or  a  falter. 
And  here  I  sit  and  drink  to  her 

Long  life  and  happiness,  God  bless  her  ! 
Now  fill  again.     No  heel  taps,  sir ; 

Here  's  to  —  Success  to  her  successor ! 


MEA  CULPA. 

THERE  is  a  thing  which  in  my  brain, 
Though  nightly  I  revolve  it, 
I  cannot  in  the  least  explain, 

Nor  do  I  hope  to  solve  it. 
While  others  tread  the  narrow  path 

In  manner  meek  and  pious, 
Why  is  it  that  my  spirit  hath 
So  opposite  a  bias? 

Brought  up  to  fear  the  Lord,  and  dread 

The  bottomless  abysm, 
In  Watts's  hymns  profoundly  read 

And  drilled  in  catechism, 
I  should  have  been  a  model  youth, 

The  pink  of  all  that  's  proper. 
I  was  not,  but  —  to  tell  the  truth  — 

I  never  cared  a  copper. 

10 


MEA    CULPA. 

I  had  no  yearnings  when  a  boy 

To  sport  an  angel's  wrapper, 
Nor  heard  I  with  tumultuous  joy 

The  church-frequenting  clapper. 
My  actions  always  harmonized 

With  my  own  sweet  volition. 
I  always  did  what  I  devised, 

But  rarely  asked  permission. 

When  o'er  the  holy  book  I  'd  pore 

And  read  of  doings  pristine, 
I  had  a  fellow-feeling  for 

The  put-upon  Philistine. 
King  David  gratified  my  taste  — 

He  harped  and  danced  boleros  ; 
But  first  the  Prodigal  was  placed 

Upon  my  list  of  heroes. 

I  went  to  school.     To  study  ?     No  ! 

I  dearly  loved  to  dally 
And  dawdle  over  Ivanhoe, 

Tom  Brown  and  Charles  O'Malley 
In  recitation  I  was  used 

To  halt  on  every  sentence  ; 
Repenting,  seldom  I  produced 

Fruits  proper  to  repentance. 


MEA    CULPA. 

At  college,  later,  I  became 

Familiar  with  my  Flaccus, 
Brought  incense  to  the  Muses'  flame, 

And  sacrificed  to  Bacchus. 
I  flourished  in  an  air  unfraught 

With  sanctity's  aroma ; 
Learned  many  things  I  was  not  taught, 

And  captured  a  diploma. 

I  am  not  well  provided  for, 

I  have  no  great  possessions, 
I  do  not  like  the  legal  or 

Medicinal  professions, 
Were  1  of  good  repute  I  might 

Take  orders  as  a  deacon  ; 
But  I  'm  no  bright  and  shining  light, 

But  just  a  warning  beacon. 

Though  often  urged  by  friends  sincere 

To  woo  some  funded  houri, 
I  cannot  read  my  title  clear 

To  any  damsel's  dowry. 
And  could  to  wedlock  I  induce 

An  heiress,  I  should  falter, 
For  fear  that  such  a  bridal  noose 

Might  prove  a  gilded  halter. 


MEA    CULPA. 

My  tradesmen  have  suspicious  grown, 

My  friends  are  tired  of  giving ; 
Upon  the  cold,  cold  world  I  'm  thrown 

To  hammer  out  my  living. 
I  fear  that  work  before  me  lies  — 

Indeed,  I  see  no  option, 
Unless,  perhaps,  I  advertise  — 

"  An  orphan  for  adoption  !  " 

A  legacy  of  misspent  time 

Is  all  that  I  'm  the  heir  to ; 
I  cannot  make  my  life  sublime 

However  much  I  care  to. 
And  if  as  now  I  turn  my  head 

In  retrospect  a  minute, 
'T  is  but  to  recognize  my  bed, 

Before  I  lie  down  in  it. 

I  am  the  man  that  I  have  been, 

And  at  the  final  summing, 
How  shall  I  bear  to  see  sent  in 

My  score, —  one  long  shortcoming  ! 
Unless  when  all  the  saints  exclaim 

With  righteous  wrath,  "  Peccavit!" 
Some  mighty  friend  shall  make  his  claim 

"  He  suffered,  and  — amavit !  " 
13 


AGAIN. 

1    WONDER  why  my  brow  is  burning; 
Why  sleep,  to  close  my  eyes  forgets ; 
I  wonder  why  I  have  a  yearning 
To  smoke  incessant  cigarettes. 
I  wonder  why  my  thoughts  will  wander, 

And  all  restraint  of  mine  defy, 
And  why  —  excuse  the  rhyme  —  a  gander 
Is  not  more  of  a  goose  than  I. 

I  have  an  indistinct  impression 

I  had  these  symptoms  once  before, 
And  dull  discomfort  held  possession 

Of  this  same  spot  that  now  is  sore. 
That  some  time  in  a  past  that  ranges 

From  early  whiskers  up  to  bibs, 
My  heart  was  ringing  just  such  changes 

As  now  against  these  selfsame  ribs. 


AGAIN. 

I  wish  some  philanthropic  Jenner 

Might  vaccinate  against  these  ills, 
And  help  us  keep  our  noiseless  tenor 

Of  life  submissive  to  our  wills; 
And  ere  our  hearts  are  permeated 

By  sentiments  too  warm  by  half, 
That  we  might  be  inoculated 

With  milder  passion  from  a  calf. 


SNOW-BOUND. 

A  law  office ;  two  briefless  ones ;  a  clock  strikes. 

JAMES. 

ONE,  two,  three,  four;   it 's  four  o'clock. 
There  comes  the  postman  round  the  block, 
And  in  a  jiff  we  '11  hear  his  knock 

Most  pleasant. 

Inform  me,  Thomas,  will  he  bring 
To  you  deserving  no  such  thing 
Letters  from  her  whose  praises  ring 
Incessant  ? 

THOMAS. 

Friend  of  my  bosom,  James,  refrain 
From  putting  questions  fraught  with  pain, 
And  seeking  facts  I  had  not  fain 

Imparted. 

The  said  official  on  this  stretch, 
Will  not,  in  my  opinion,  fetch, 
Such  documents  to  me,  a  wretch 

Down-hearted. 

16 


SNOW-BOUND. 

JAMES. 

Nay  ;  but  I  prithee,  Thomas,  tell 

To  me,  thy  friend,  who  loves  thee  well, 

What  cause  there  is  for  such  a  fell 

Deprival. 

Why  is  it  that  the  message  fails  ? 
Have  broken  ties,  or  twisted  rails, 
Or  storm,  or  snow  delayed  the  mail's 

Arrival  ? 

THOMAS. 

Thou  art," oh,  James  !  a  friend  indeed, 
To  probe  my  wound  and  make  it  bleed; 
To  know  of  my  affairs  thy  greed 

Hath  no  bound. 

The  reason  why,  thou  hast  not  guessed, 
If  storm  there  were,  't  was  in  her  breast, 
For  there  my  letter,  unexpressed, 

Lies  snow-bound. 


TO    MABEL. 

UPON  this  anniversary 
My  little  godchild,  aged  three, 
My  compliments  I  make  to  thee, 

Quite  heedless. 

And  that  you  '11  throw  them  now  away, 
But  treasure  them  some  future  day, 
Are  platitudes,  the  which  to  say 
Is  needless. 

You  small,  stout  damsel,  muckle  mou'd, 
With  cropped  tow-head  and  manners  rude, 
And  stormy  spirit  unsubdued 

By  nurses. 

Where  you  were  raised  was  it  in  vogue 
To  lisp  that  Tipperary  brogue  ? 
Oh,  you  're  a  subject  sweet,  you  rogue, 

For  verses  ! 

18 


TO    MABEL. 

Last  Sunday  morning  when  we  stayed 

At  home  you  got  yourself  arrayed 

In  Lyman's  clothes  and  turned  from  maid 

To  urchin. 

And  when  we  all  laughed  at  you  so, 
You  eyed  outside  the  falling  snow, 
And  thought  your  rig  quite  fit  to  go 

To  church  in. 

Play  on,  play  on,  dear  little  lass  ! 
Play  on  till  sixteen  summers  pass, 
And  then  I  '11  bring  a  looking-glass. 

And  there  be- 
Fore  you  on  your  lips  I  '11  show 
The  curves  of  small  Dan  Cupid's  bow, 
And  then  the  crop  that  now  is  "  tow  " 

Shall  "fair"  be. 

And  then  I  '11  show  you,  too,  the  charms 
Of  small  firm  hands  and  rounded  arms, 
And  eyes  whose  flashes  send  alarms 

Right  through  you ; 
And  then  a  half-regretful  sigh 
May  break  from  me  to  think  that  I, 
At  forty  years,  can  never  try, 

To  woo  you. 
«9 


TO    MABEL. 

What  shall  I  wish  you  ?     Free  from  ruth, 
To  live  and  learn  in  love  and  truth, 
Through  childhood's  day  and  days  of  youth, 

And  school's  day. 
For  all  the  days  that  intervene 
'Twixt  Mab  at  three  and  at  nineteen, 
Are  but  one  sombre  or  serene 

All  Fools'  Day. 


IN  THE    ELYSIAN  FIELDS. 

WHAT  ?     You  here  !     Why,  old  man,  I  never 
Felt  more  surprise  or  more  delight ; 
Who  would  have  dreamt  that  you  would  ever 

Parade  around  in  robes  of  white? 
I  always  thought  of  you  as  dodging 

The  coals  and  firebrands  somewhere  else ; 
And  here  you  are,  with  board  and  lodging, 
Where  not  so  much  as  butter  melts. 

Well,  well,  old  man,  if  you  can  stand  it 

Up  here,  I  '11  never  make  a  fuss; 
I  had  forebodings  that  they  'd  planned  it 

A  little  stiff  for  men  like  us. 
The  boys  were  much  cut  up  about  you, 

You  got  away  so  very  quick ; 
And,  as  for  me,  to  do  without  you 

Just  absolutely  made  me  sick. 


IN    THE   ELYS1AN   FIELDS. 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  us  plant  you ; 

Why,  every  man  squeezed  out  a  tear, 
And— just  imagine  us,  now,  can't  you?  — 

The  gang,  and  yours  the  only  bier  ! 
Fred  hammered  out  some  bully  verses  ; 

We  had  them  printed  in  the  sheet, 
With  lines  funereal  as  hearses 

Around  them  —  did  n't  it  look  sweet ! 

Halloo  !  is  that  Sir  Walter  Raleigh  ?  — 

I  wish  you  'd  point  the  people  out ; 
I  want  to  look  at  Tom  Macaulay  ; 

Is  Makepeace  anywhere  about  ? 
Where  's  Socrates  ?     Where  's  Sydney  Carton  ?• 

Oh,  I  forgot  he  was  a  myth  ; 
If  there  's  a  thing  I  Ve  set  my  heart  on 

It  is  to  play  with  Sydney  Smith. 

What  ?     Glad  I  came  ?     I  am  for  certain  ; 

The  other  's  a  malarious  hole. 
I  always  pined  to  draw  the  curtain, 

And  somehow  knew  I  had  a  soul. 
The  flesh  —  oh,  was  n't  it  a  fetter  ! 

You  'd  get  so  tired  of  all  your  schemes ; 
But  here,  I  think,  I  '11  like  it  better. 

Oh  dear,  how  natural  it  seems  ! 


A  SECOND  THOUGHT. 

THIS  world  's  the  worst  I  ever  saw; 
I  'd  like  to  make  it  better ; 
I  'm  going  to  promulgate  the  law, 
And  hold  men  to  its  letter. 
Be  respectable  and  stand 

Esteemed  of  Mrs.  Grundy ; 
Attend  to  business  week-days  and 
Read  moral  books  on  Sunday. 

On  Sabbath  keepers,  every  one, 

Approvingly  I  smile,  and 
Frown  on  those  who  spend  their  Sun- 
Days  down  at  Coney  Island. 

Don't  play  cards,  young  man  ;  gobang 

Affords  amusement  ample. 
Speak  carefully,  eschewing  slang, 
And  set  a  good  example. 
23 


A    SECOND    THOUGHT. 

The  theaters,  how  bad  they  be  ! 

The  players,  oh,  how  vicious  ! 

The  waltz  I  shudder  when  I  see, 

And  think  it  most  pernicious. 

Shun  the  wine  cup ;  don't  be  led 

To  drink  by  scoff  or  banter ; 
In  the  cup  lurk  pains  of  head, 
And  snakes  in  the  decanter. 

Ah,  me  !  I  wonder  if  I  'm  right ! 
I  say,  "It  's  wrong  to  do  so  !  " 
As  though,  without  a  soul  in  sight, 
I  ruled  alone,  like  Crusoe. 

Is  it  that  I  am  partly  wrong, 

And  partly  right,  my  neighbor, 
And  that  we  get,  who  toil  so  long, 
Half  truths  for  all  our  labor  ? 


A  PRACTICAL  QUESTION 

DARKLY  the  humorist 
Muses  on  fate  ; 
Ghastly  experiment 
Life  seems  to  him, 
Subject  for  merriment 

Somber  and  grim ; 

Is  it  his  doom  or  is  't 

Something  he  ate  ? 


ET  TU,   BERGHE! 

A^D  art  thou,  Bergh,  so  firmly  set 
Against  domestic  strife, 
As  to  correct  with  stripes  the  man 
Who  disciplines  his  wife  ? 

Such  action  doth  not  of  thy  creed 
Appear  the  normal  fruit ; 

Thou  shouldst  befriend  a  being  who 
Behaves  so  like  a  brute  ! 


INSOMNIA, 

COME,  vagrant  sleep,  and  close  the  lid 
Upon  the  casket  of  my  thought; 
Come,  truant,  come  when  thou  art  bid, 
And  let  thyself  be  caught. 

For  lonely  is  the  night,  and  still ; 

And  save  my  own  no  breath  I  hear, 
No  other  mind,  no  other  will, 

Nor  heart  nor  hand  is  near. 

Thy  waywardness  what  prayer  can  move  1 
Canst  thou  by  any  lure  be  brought  ? 

Or  art  thou  then  like  woman's  love 
That  only  comes  unsought  ? 

Up  !  Where  's  my  dressing  gown  ?     My  pipe  is  here. 
Slumber  be  hanged  !     Now  for  a  book  and  beer. 


CIVIL  SERVICE. 

ON  Pennsylvania  avenue 
He  stood  and  waited  for  a  car; 
He  turned  to  catch  a  parting  view 

Of  where  the  Public  Buildings  are  : 
He  looked  at  them  with  thoughtful  eye ; 

He  took  his  hat  from  off  his  head ; 
He  heaved  a  half-regretful  sigh, 
And  thus  he  said  : 

"  My  relative,  I  do  the  bidding 

Of  Fate,  and  say  to  thee  good-bye. 
I  think  thee  fortunate  at  ridding 

Thyself  of  such  a  clerk  as  I. 
Thy  sure  support,  though  somewhat  meagre, 

Hath  much  about  it  to  commend ; 
Nor  am  I  now  so  passing  eager 
To  leave  so  provident  a  friend. 
28 


CIVIL    SERYICE. 

"  Light  was  thy  yoke  could  I  have  borne  it 

With  tranquil  mind  and  step  sedate  ; 
Why  did  my  feeble  shoulders  scorn  it 

And  seem  to  crave  a  heavier  weight  ? 
Extremely  blest  is  his  condition 

Whose  needs  thy  bounteous  hands  supply, 
If  he  but  fling  away  ambition 

And  let  the  world  go  rushing  by. 

"  Indocilis  pauperiem  pati, 

I  must  get  out  of  this  damp  spot. 
Away  !  away  !     Whatever  fate  I 

May  have  in  store,  I  fear  it  not. 
Away  from  all  my  soul  despises, 

From  paltry  aims,  from  sordid  cares ; 
Fame,  honor,  love,  time's  richest  prizes, 

Lie  waiting  for  the  man  who  dares. 

"  The  man  who  calls  no  man  his  master, 

Nor  bows  his  head  to  tinsel  gods  ; 
Who  faces  debt,  disease,  disaster, 

And  never  murmurs  at  the  odds ; 
Although  his  life  from  its  beginning 

Marks  only  fall  succeeding  fall, 
Let  him  fight  on  and  trust  to  winning 

In  death  the  richest  prize  of  all." 


CIVIL    SERVICE. 

He  jammed  his  hat  down  on  his  head ; 

He  turned  from  where  the  Buildings  are ; 
Precipitately  thence  he  fled, 

And  caught  a  passing  car. 


ALL  OR   NOTHING. 

HAPPY  the  man  whose  far  remove 
From  business  and  the  giddy  throng 
Fits  him  in  the  paternal  groove 
Unquestioning  to  glide  along. 
Apart  from  struggle  and  from  strife, 

Content  to  live  by  labor's  fruits, 
And  wander  down  the  vale  of  life 
In  gingham  shirt  and  cowhide  boots. 

He  too  is  blessed  who,  from  within, 

By  strong  and  lasting  impulse  stirred, 
Faces  the  turmoil  and  the  din 

Of  rushing  life  ;   whom  hope  deferred 
But  more  incites  ;   who  ever  strives, 

And  wants,  and  works,  and  waits,  until 
The  multitude  of  other  lives 

Pay  glorious  tribute  to  his  will. 
31 


ALL    OR    NOTHING. 

But  he  who,  greedy  of  renown, 

Is  too  tenacious  of  his  ease, 
Alas  for  him  !     Nor  busy  town 

Nor  country  with  his  mood  agrees ; 
Eager  to  reap,  but  loath  to  sow, 
He  longs  monstrari  digito, 
And  looking  on  with  envious  eyes, 
Lives  restless  and  obscurely  dies. 


A  PHILADELPHIA  CLAVERHOUSE. 

TO  the  fathers  in  council  't  was  Witherspoon  spoke 
"  Our  best  beloved  dogmas  we  cannot  revoke ; 
God's  infinite  mercy  let  others  record, 
And  teach  men  to  trust  in  their  crucified  Lord ; 
The  old  superstitions  let  others  dispel, 
I  feel  it  my  duty  to  go  in  for  Hell ! 

"  Perdition  is  needful;  beyond  any  doubt 
Hell  fire  is  a  thing  that  we  can't  do  without. 
The  bottomless  pit  is  our  very  best  claim  ; 
To  leave  it  unworked  were  a  sin  and  a  shame ; 
We  must  keep  it  up,  if  we  like  it  or  not, 
And  make  it  eternal  and  make  it  red-hot. 

"  To  others  the  doctrine  of  love  may  be  dear  — 
I  own  I  confide  in  the  doctrine  of  fear ; 
There  's  nothing,  I  think,  so  effective  to  make 
Our  weak  fellow  mortals  their  errors  forsake, 

33 


A   PHILADELPHIA    CLAYERHOUSE. 

As  to  tell  them  abruptly,  with  unchanging  front, 
'  You  '11  be  damned  if  you  do  !  You  Ml  be  damned  if  you 
don't ! ' 

Saltpetre  and  pitchforks,  with  brimstone  and  coals, 

Are  arguments  suited  to  rescue  men's  souls. 

A  new  generation  forthwith  must  arise 

With  Beelzebub  pictured  before  their  young  eyes ; 

They  '11  be  brave,  they  '11  be  true,  they  '11  be  gentle  and 

kind, 
Because  they  '11  have  Satan  forever  in  mind." 


34 


THROWING   STONES. 

"  T  LOVE  my  child,"  the  actress  wrote; 
1      "  My  duty  is  to  guide 
The  child  I  bore ;  and  in  my  arms 

The  child  I  love  shall  hide  — 
Shall  hide  from  missiles  cast  at  me, 

Because  I  have  so  odd 
A  conscience  that  I  choose  to  rear 

The  child  I  took  from  God." 

There  is  a  sin  from  which  us  all 

May  gracious  Heaven  guard, 
That  is  its  own  worst  punishment, 

Itself  its  sole  reward. 
And  of  it  social  law  has  said 

To  man  :   "  If  sin  you  must, 
Go,  then,  and  come  again,  but  leave 

The  woman  in  the  dust !  " 

35 


THROWING    STONES. 

Ah  !  who  can  know,  save  Him  Allwise 

Who  watches  from  above, 
The  awful  hazard  women  dare 

To  run  for  men  they  love  ; 
Or  tell  how  many  a  craven  heart, 

To  shield  his  own  bad  name, 
Has  caused  a  woman's  trustful  love 

To  bring  her  lasting  shame  ? 

To  her  who,  when  the  dream  has  passed, 

Finds  herself  left  alone, 
And  in  her  crushed,  repentant  heart, 

A  yearning  to  atone, 
Heaven,  more  pitiful  than  man 

Who  erst  upon  her  smiled, 
By  love  to  win  her  to  itself 

May  send  a  little  child. 

Then,  if  the  lonely  mother's  heart 

Accepts  the  gracious  gift ; 
And  if  the  charge  she  dared  to  take 

She  does  not  dare  to  shift ; 
Shall  we,  untempted  and  untried, 

To  ease  and  virtue  born, 
Visit  upon  her  shrinking  head 

Our  unrelenting  scorn  ? 
36 


THROWING    STONES. 

We,  who  have  all  our  lives  been  taught 

Truths  other  men  have  learned, 
And  walked  by  what  celestial  light 

In  other  bosoms  burned; 
We,  whose  sublimest  duty  is 

To  do  as  we  are  bid ; 
How  shall  we  judge  a  soul  from  which 

The  face  of  God  is  hid  ? 

Know  you  the  loneliness  of  heart 

That  courts  release  from  death  ? 
That  makes  it  burdensome  to  draw 

Each  slow,  successive  breath  ? 
That  longs  for  human  sympathy, 

Until,  when  hope  is  lost, 
A  respite  from  its  agony 

It  buys  at  any  cost? 

Of  erring  human  nature,  we 

Are  born,  each  with  his  share  ; 
We  all  are  vain  ;   we  all  are  weak, 

And  quick  to  fly  from  care. 
And  if  we  keep  our  footing, 

Or  seem  to  rise  at  all, 
'  T  were  well  for  us  with  charity 

To  look  on  those  who  fall. 

37 


THROWING    STONES. 

And  if  our  hands  are  strengthened, 

And  if  our  lips  can  speak, 
'T  were  well  if  with  them  we  might  help 

Our  brothers  who  are  weak; 
And  well  if  we  remember 

God's  love  is  never  grudged, 
And  never  sit  in  judgment, 

If  we  would  not  be  judged. 


TOUCHING    BOTTOM. 

I    THINK  that  I  have  somewhere  read 
About  a  man  whose  foolish  head, 
By  mischievous  intention  led, 

A  sprite 

Had  with  an  ass's  visage  decked, 
That  all  who  met  him  might  detect 
His  intellectual  defect 

At  sight. 

The  trite  remark  of  man  and  book 
That  many  men  are  men  in  look, 
But  donkeys  really,  thus  the  spook 

Reversed ; 

The  victim  of  the  imp's  design 
Had  such  a  head  as  yours  or  mine, 
Although  his  did  seem  asinine 

At  first. 

39 


TOUCHING   BOTTOM. 

But  Love  —  I  think  the  story  ran  — 
Was  proof  against  the  fairy's  plan, 
Discerning  through  the  mask  the  man, 

Perhaps ; 

Or,  is  it  true  that  women  try, 
But  very  faintly,  to  descry 
Long  ears  on  heads  that  occupy 

Their  laps ! 

I  know  a  youth  whose  fancy  gropes 
For  headgear  finer  than  the  Pope's, 
So  him  his  bright  and  treacherous  hopes 

Delude ; 

But,  in  the  mirror  of  his  fears, 
When  this  too  sanguine  person  peers, 
Alas  !  behold  the  jackass  ears 

Protrude  ! 

Titania,  mine,  if  I  could  find 

You  always  to  my  follies  blind, 

So  great  content  would  rule  my  mind 

Within, 

That  even  though  myself  aware 
Of  pointed  ears  adorned  with  hair, 
I  do  not  think  that  I  would  care 

A  pin. 
40 


HONI    S01T    (LUI    MAL    Y    PENSE, 

IT  was  my  happy  lot  to  meet 
Upon  a  late  occasion, 
While  seeking  of  the  summer's  heat 

Agreeable  evasion, 
By  visiting  at  a  resort 

Of  fashion  —  where,  no  matter  — 
A  maid  whom  there  was  none  to  court, 
And  very  few  to  flatter. 

Her  head  had  not  the  graceful  poise 

Of  Aphrodite's  statue  ; 
Her  hair  reminded  you  of  boys  ; 

Her  nose  was  pointed  at  you. 
A  Derby  hat,  the  self-same  sort 

The  fashionable  male  owes 
Money  for,  she  used  to  sport 

As  angels  do  their  halos. 
41 


HONl    SOIT    QUI   MAL    Y   PENSE. 

She  seldom  walked  in  silk  attire, 

But  commonly  in  flannel : 
Not  yet  in  oils  did  she  aspire 

To  figure  on  a  panel ; 
Because  she  could  not  help  but  see 

She  was  not  tall  nor  slender  ; 
Nor  did  she  deem  her  curves  to  be 

Superlatively  tender. 

Some  prudish  dames  did  her  abuse 

With  censure  fierce  and  scathing  ; 
Because  she,  happening  to  lose 

Her  stocking  while  in  bathing, 
Deemed  such  a  loss  of  little  note, 

And  simply  tied  the  plagued 
Stocking  'round  her  little  throat 

And  reappeared  barelegged. 

I  do  not  think  that  for  the  pelf 

Of  eligible  boobies, 
Or  for  the  chance  to  deck  herself 

With  diamonds  and  rubies, 
Or  for  her  standing  in  the  books 

Of  prim  and  proper  ladies, 
Or  for  their  disapproving  looks, 

She  cared  a  hoot  from  Hades. 
42 


HONI   SOIT   QUI   MAL    Y   PENSE. 

Though  competent  to  hold  her  tongue, 

When  circumstance  demanded 
Speech,  she  was,  for  one  so  young, 

Astonishingly  candid. 
She  sang  the  vulgarest  of  songs, 

Which  sung  by  her  were  funny, 
And  never  brooded  o'er  her  wrongs  — 

Nor  hoarded  up  her  money. 

'T  is  true  this  careless  damsel's  fame 

At  last  grew  somewhat  shady  ; 
But  if  the  man  disposed  to  name 

Her  fast,  or  not  a  lady, 
Will  in  the  present  writer's  way 

Considerately  toddle, 
This  writer  thinks  that  person  may 

Get  punched  upon  his  noddle. 


LOCH1NVAR    EX-COLORADO. 

OH,  the  cow-puncher  Budge  has  come  in  from  the  West ; 
In  all  Colorado  his  ranch  is  the  best ; 
And,  barring  a  toothbrush,  he  baggage  had  none, 
For  he  came  in  some  haste,  and  he  came  not  for  fun ; 
Nor  vigils  nor  gold  to  his  quest  doth  he  grudge  — 
On  an  errand  of  love  comes  the  cow-puncher  Budge. 

A  telegram  reached  him ;  he  called  for  a  horse. 
He  rode  ninety  miles  as  a  matter  of  course  ; 
The  last  twenty-seven  he  galloped,  and  then 
Just  caught  the  Atlantic  Express  at  Cheyenne. 
He  stayed  not  to  eat  nor  to  drink,  for  he  knew 
He  could  pick  up  a  meal  on  the  C.  B.  &  Q. 

He  got  to  Chicago  the  second  day  out, 
But  right  through  Chicago  he  kept  on  his  route, 
Nor  stayed  to  buy  linen,  not  even  a  shirt ; 
He  liked  flannel  best  and  he  did  n't  mind  dirt. 


LOCHINVAR    EX-COLORADO. 

With  trousers  tucked  into  his  boots,  said  he  "  Fudge  !  — 
Small  odds  — if  I  get  there,"  said  bold  Robert  Budge. 

From  Worth,  the  Parisian  of  awful  repute, 

Had  come  divers  gowns  to  Angelica  Bute, 

And  parcels  from  Tiffany  daily  were  stowed 

Away  in  strong  rooms  of  her  father's  abode  ; 

But  she  languished,  nor  heeded  she  hint,  cough  or  nudge  ; 

She  was  bound  to  Fitz  James,  but  she  cottoned  to  Budge. 

But  hark  !     'T  is  the  door-bell  !  a  symptom  of  joy 
Lights  her  eye  —  "  Ah  !  at  last  !  "   'T  is  a  telegraph  boy  ; 
The  maid  brings  a  message ;  she  takes  it,  half  dead 
With  mingled  excitement,  hope,  eagerness  —  dread: 
Mayor's  house  on  Thursday,  at  nine  ;  let  me  judge 
What  next !  only  meet  me  there. 

Faithfully, 

Budge." 


On  Thursday  at  nine,  to  the  house  of  the  Mayor 

Two  persons  came  singly,  but  left  it  a  pair, 

A  man  and  a  bride  in  a  travelling  dress, 

Went  Westward  at  ten  on  the  lightning  express. 

A  wedding  at  Grace  Church,  which  should  have  occurred 

At  twelve,  was,  for  reasons  not  given,  deferred. 

45 


LOCH1NYAR    EX-COLORADO. 

The  dowagers  called  it  the  greatest  of  shames. 

The  men  said,   "  It 's  rough  on  that  fellow  Fitz  James  "  ; 

The  damsels  declared  it  was  awfully  nice, 

And  vowed  they  could  do  it  and  never  think  twice. 

It 's  a  chore  to  get  housemaids  ;  you  may  have  to  drudge 

At'the  start ;  but  —  I  love  you,"  said  cow-puncher  Budge. 


A    MORTIFYING    SUBJECT. 

WHAT  is  to  be,  I  do  not  know  : 
What  is  I  do  esteem 
To  be  so  undesirable 

And  worthless,  that  I  deem 
There  must  be  something  good  in  store, 

Something  to  keep  in  view, 
To  compensate  us  living  here, 
For  living  as  we  do. 

For  life  —  oh  life,  it  seems  a  chore  ! 

Its  surface  is  so  blurred 
By  cares  and  passions  that  it  makes 

One  long  to  be  interred  ; 
To  occupy  a  tranquil  spot 

Some  seven  feet  by  two, 
And  just  serenely  lie  and  rot, 

With  nothing  else  to  do. 

47 


A    MORTIFYING    SUBJECT. 

I  think  that  when  there  ceased  to  be 

Sufficient  tenement 
To  hold  my  conscience,  then  I  would 

Begin  to  be  content. 
And  if  I  should  be  there  to  see 

My  stomach  take  its  leave, 
I  'd  gather  up  my  mouldering  shroud 

And  chuckle  in  my  sleeve. 

I  think  that  when  the  greedy  worm 

Began  upon  my  brains, 
I  'd  wish  him  luck,  and  hope  he  'd  get 

His  dinner  for  his  pains. 
I  'd  warn  him  that  they  would  be  apt 

With  him  to  disagree, 
For  if  they  fed  him  well  't  were  what 

They  seldom  did  for  me. 

But  when  I  should  be  certain  that 

My  scarred  and  battered  heart 
Was  of  my  corporality 

Not  any  more  a  part, 
Though  I  'd  no  voice,  I  'd  rattle  in 

My  throat,  with  joyous  tones  ; 
And  with  no  feelings  left,  I  would 

Feel  happy  in  my  bones. 
48 


MIXED. 

WITHIN  my  earthly  temple  there  's  a  crowd. 
There  one  of  us  that 's  humble  ;  one  that 's  proud. 
There  's  one  that 's  broken-hearted  for  his  sins, 
And  one  who,  unrepentant,  sits  and  grins. 
There  's  one  who  loves  his  neighbor  as  himself, 
And  one  who  cares  for  naught  but  fame  and  pelf. 
From  much  corroding  care  would  I  be  free 
If  once  I  could  determine  which  is  me. 


49 


AND    WAS    HE    RIGHT? 

"  T  'M  going  to  marry  —  not  you,"  she  said, 
1    "  But  a  better  fellow  in  your  stead. 
You  're  not  so  bad  —  not  bad  at  all ; 
I  'd  like  to  keep  you  within  my  call, 
But  not  to  take  you  for  good  and  all. 
I  'm  going  to  live  on  yonder  street ; 
Do  you  live  near  me,"  she  said ;   "so  sweet 
As  I  '11  be  to  you  whenever  we  meet ! 
And  in  my  house  there  '11  be  a  seat 
Where  you  can  sit  and  warm  your  feet, 
And  your  contentment  shall  be  complete  — 
Come  !  Is  n't  it  a  divine  conceit? " 

She  said. 

Softly  his  breast  a  sigh  set  free : 
He  said,  "  Dear  Heart,  it  may  not  be. 
Not  for  the  perfume  of  the  rose 
Would  I  live  near  to  where  it  grows. 
If  not  for  me  the  bud  has  blown, 
I  'd  rather  leave  the  flower  alone. 
Who  by  the  bush  sits  down  forlorn 
Is  only  fit  to  feel  the  thorn," 

He  said, 
so 


BALLADE  OF  THE  GENERAL  TERM 

EACH  in  his  high  official  chair; 
One  who  presides ;  two  plain  J.  J. 
Decent  of  mien  and  white  of  hair 
They  sit  there  judging  all  the  day. 
The  gravity  of  what  they  say 
Bent  brows  and  sober  tones  confirm  ; 
Brown,  Jones  and  Robinson  are  they, 
Justices  of  the  General  Term. 

I  see  the  learned  counsel  there 
Rise  up  and  argue,  move  and  pray ; 
Attorneys  with  respectful  air 
Their  perspicacity  display. 
Serenely  joyous  if  they  may 
Of  justice  keep  alive  the  germ ; 
Motion  and  argument  they  weigh 
Those  justices  of  General  Term. 
51 


BALLADE  OF  THE  GENERAL  TERM. 

That  court  I  haunt,  not  that  I  care 
For  justice  in  a  general  way; 
Nor  yet  because  I  hope  to  share 
With  anyone  a  client's  pay. 
The  reason  why  I  there  delay 
And  on  the  court's  hard  benches  squirm 
Is  that  of  Love  I  am  the  prey  — 
Her  father's  of  the  General  Term. 

ENVOY. 

I  look  at  him  with  dire  dismay  — 
Scorched  by  his  eye  I  seem  a  worm. 
"  Dismissed  with  costs,"  is  what  he  '11  say 
That  Justice  of  the  General  Term. 


INFIRM. 

1WILL  not  go,"  he  said,  "  for  well 
I  know  her  eyes'  insidious  spell, 
And  how  unspeakably  he  feels 
Who  takes  no  pleasure  in  his  meals. 
I  know  a  one-idea'd  man 
Should  undergo  the  social  ban, 
And  if  she  once  my  purpose  melts 
I  know  I  '11  think  of  nothing  else., 

<  I  care  not  though  her  teeth  are  pearls  — 
The  town  is  full  of  nicer  girls  ! 
I  care  not  though  her  lips  are  red  — 
It  does  not  do  to  lose  one's  head  ! 
I  '11  give  her  leisure  to  discover, 
For  once,  how  little  I  think  of  her  ; 
And  then,  how  will  she  feel  ?  "  cried  he  — 
And  took  his  hat  and  went  to  see. 


53 


CRUMBS    AND    COMFORT. 

C,T  no  man,  irked  by  tedious  fate, 
The  worth  of  victuals  underrate  ; 
But  thankful  be  if  so  he  may 
Environ  three  square  meals  a  day  ; 

For,  barring  drink,  there  's  naught  so  good, 
Up  to  its  limit's  edge,  as  food. 

Up  to  its  limit  ?     Yes,  but  will 

Food  satisfy  as  well  as  fill  ? 

Hear  humankind  responsive  groan  — 
"  Man  cannot  live  by  bread  alone  !  " 

Oh,  tell  me,  Sibyl,  tell  me  whether 

A  man  might  live  on  bread  —  together  ! 


54 


ASHORE. 

Man's  happiness  depends  upon  the  views 
He  takes  of  circumstances  that  he's  in. 

To  some  it  is  a  greater  joy  to  lose 
Than  it,  to  others,  ever  is  to  win. 

SINCE  our  poor  hopes,  like  vessels  tempest  tossed, 
Are  duly  wrecked,  and  all  illusion  ceases ; 
Now  that  the  game  is  up,  let 's  count  the  cost, 
And  estimate  the  value  of  the  pieces. 

And  first,  our  heart :   It  was  a  flimsy  thing 
Already  when  we  dared  this  last  adventure  ; 

And  if  it 's  flimsy  still  —  why  that  should  bring 
No  added  liability  to  censure. 

A  serviceable  organ  is  it  still, 

That  does  our  turn  in  absence  of  a  better ; 
And  very  shortly,  we  believe,  it  will 

As  calmly  thump  as  though  we  'd  never  met  her. 

55 


ASHORE. 

If  tissues  are  so  delicately  spun 

As  not  to  stand  a  reasonable  racket, 

Their  anxious  owner  has  as  little  fun 

As  Master  Thomas  in  his  Sunday  jacket. 

Give  tender  hearts  to  those  who  like  that  kind, 
And  gain  in  strength  with  every  pang  they  suffer 

We  praise  that  sort,  but  with  relief  we  find 

That  ours  is  tough  and  yearly  growing  tougher. 

Our  head  remains  the  same  indifferent  pate, 
Guiltless  alike  of  learning  and  of  laurels. 

We  notice,  though,  with  thankfulness,  of  late 
A  measure  of  improvement  in  our  morals. 

Our  purse  was  always  lean,  so  it  amounts 
To  little  that  it  yet  remains  depleted ; 

Though  florists'  and  confectioners'  accounts 
Are  in,  and  payment  of  the  same  entreated. 

We've  lost  a  heap  of  time,  but  being  rid 
Of  time,  one  always  gets  along  without  it. 

Could  we  have  spent  it  better  than  we  did  ! 
Another  might ;  but,  for  ourself,  we  doubt  it. 

56 


ASHORE. 

And  we  have  learned  —  nothing.     We  knew  before 

The  folly  and  the  vanity  of  wooing : 
And  if  we  chose  to  try  it  still  once  more, 

'T  was  not  to  win,  but  simply  to  be  doing. 

It  was  not  that  we  hoped  to  gain  a  heart ; 

That  that  were  vain  required  no  further  proving. 
It  only  meant  that  souls  that  live  apart 

Yield  sometimes  to  the  human  need  of  loving. 

Is  this  the  last  ?     While  yet  his  garments  drip 
The  stranded  mariner  forgets  his  pain, 

And  rescuing  the  remnants  of  his  ship, 
Already  plans  to  make  them  float  again. 


57 


BARTER. 

YES,  there  's  a  hole  ;  you  need  n't  be 
At  pains  to  point  it  out  to  me : 

I  know  it. 

I  do  not  claim  the  piece  is  whole, 
Or  that  its  yard  of  width  is  full : 
I  merely  show  it. 

Fast  color  ?     Do  I  really  think 
That  being  soaked  it  will  not  shrink 

When  dried  ? 

Now  that  I  've  got  it  off  the  shelf, 
You  'd  better  test  the  dyes  yourself, 

And  so  decide. 

Cotton  ?     I  dare  surmise  it 's  full 

Of  threads  that  one  might  wish  were  wool, 

If  wishing  did  it. 

Look  sharp  ;  but  if  through  being  blind 
Some  flaw  or  fault  you  fail  to  find, 

Don't  say  I  hid  it. 
58 


BARTER. 

The  price  is  high  ?     You  think  it  so  ? 
Well,  this  is  not,  I  'd  have  you  know, 

A  bankrupt  sale. 

These  wares  of  mine  if  you  despise, 
Some  other  dealer's  merchandise 
May  find  more  favor  in  your  eyes ; 
To  hold  mine  over  for  a  rise 

I  shall  not  fail. 


BEGGARS'  HORSES. 

1WISH  that  altitude  of  tone, 
The  waistband's  due  expansion, 
The  faculty  to  hold  one's  own 

In  this  and  t'  other  mansion  ; 
And  shirts  and  shoes  and  moral  force, 

Topcoats  and  overgaiters, 
Were  things  that  always  came  of  course 
To  philosophic  waiters. 

I  wish  that  not  by  twos  and  threes, 

In  squads  and  plural  numbers, 
Young  women  would  destroy  one's  ease 

Of  mind  and  rout  one's  slumbers ; 
But  that  if  by  a  poor  heart's  squirms 

Their  pleasures  know  accession, 
They  'd  hold  it  for  successive  terms 

In  several  possession. 
60 


BEGGARS1   HORSES. 

I  wish  I  had  been  changed  at  birth, 

And  in  my  place  maturing 
Some  infant  of  surpassing  worth, 

Industrious  past  curing, 
Had  grown  up  subject  to  my  share 

In  Father  Adam's  blunder, 
And  left  me  free  to  pile  up  care 

For  him  to  stagger  under. 

I  wish  that  some  things  could  be  had 

Without  foregoing  others ; 
That  all  the  joys  that  are  not  bad 

Were  not  weighed  down  with  bothers. 
We  can  but  wonder  as  we  test 

The  scheme  of  compensations, 
Is  happiness  with  drawbacks  best, 

Or  grief  with  consolations. 


fit 


TO-DAY. 

SEE  that  what  burdens  Heaven  may  lay 
Upon  your  shrinking  neck  to-day, 

To-day  you  bear ; 

Nor  seek  to  shun  their  weary  weight, 
Nor,  bowed  with  dread,  anticipate 
To-morrow's  care. 

Not  with  too  great  a  load  shall  Fate, 
That  knows  the  end,  your  shoulders  freight 

Or  heart  oppress ; 
If  but  to-day's  appointed  work 
You  grapple  with,  nor  wish  to  shirk 

Its  due  distress. 

The  coward  heart  that  turns  away 
From  present  tasks,  with  justice  may 

Forebodings  fill. 

Fools  try  to  quaff  to-morrow's  wine  ; 
As  though  to-morrow's  sun  could  shine 

Unrisen  still. 
62 


OF  MISTRESS  MARTHA:    HER  EYES, 

TRANSFIXED  and  spitted  in  my  heart 
By  Mistress  Martha's  eyes,  their  dart, 
Which  has  within  me  raised  a  great 
Commotion  and  uneasy  state. 

Or  are  they  black  or  are  they  blue 
I  know  not  any  more  than  you, 
Nor  could  I  for  a  wager  say 
If  they  be  hazel,  brown  or  gray. 

But  when  it  comes  to  diagnosis 
Of  what  the  outcome  of  their  use  is 
Full,  comprehensive  and  exact 
Is  my  conception  of  the  fact. 
63 


OF  MISTRESS    MARTHA:    HER   EYES. 

When  first  their  witchery  has  begun 
You  might  be  saved  if  you  would  run : 
But  who  would  look  for  cause  for  fear 
In  depths  so  limpid,  calm  and  clear. 
Too  soon,  poor  fool,  you  find  you  've  stayed 
Till  it 's  too  late  to  be  afraid. 

Alas  for  him  who  thus  misreckons 
For  friendly  lights  mistaking  beacons. 
Better  it  were  if  he  had  found 
Clarence,  his  fate,  in  Malmsey  drowned, 
Than  Mistress,  in  thine  eyes  to  sink, 
Nor  make  a  tear  o'erflow  its  brink. 


THE  BEST  GIFT   OF  ALL. 

ONE-AND-TWENTY,  one-and-twenty, 
Youth  and  beauty,  lovers  plenty ; 
Health  and  riches,  ease  and  leisure, 
Work  to  give  a  zest  to  pleasure  ; 
What  can  a  maid  so  lucky  lack  ? 
What  can  I  wish  that  Fate  holds  back  ? 

Youth  will  fade  and  beauty  wanes  ; 
Lovers,  flouted,  break  their  chains. 
Health  may  fail  and  wealth  may  fly  you, 
Pleasures  cease  to  satisfy  you  ; 
Almost  everything  that  brings 
Happiness  is  born  with  wings. 

This  I  wish  you  —  this  is  best : 
Love  that  can  endure  the  test ; 
Love  surviving  youth  and  beauty, 
Love  that  blends  with  homely  duty, 
Love  that  's  gentle,  love  that 's  true, 
Love  that 's  constant  wish  I  you. 
65 


THE   BEST    GIFT   OF  ALL. 

Still  unsatisfied  she  lives 

Who  for  gold  mere  silver  gives. 

One  more  joy  I  wish  you  yet, 

To  give  as  much  love  as  you  get. 

Grant  you,  heaven,  this  to  do, 

To  love  him  best  who  best  loves  you. 


66 


AUTUMN. 

I    HAVE  sundry  queer  sensations 
When  the  year  gets  round  to  Autumn. 
What  they  are,  and  how  I  caught  'em 

Is  obscure,  but  they  are  there  — 
Certain  gay  exhilarations 

Half-and-half,  as  Bass  with  Guinness, 
With  a  sad  what-might-have-been-ness 
In  the  brisk  September  air. 

Back  come  hopes  and  young  ambitions 
With  the  golden-rod  and  sumach, 
But  impregnated  with  true  Mach 
iavellian  despair. 

Taking  note  of  changed  conditions  ; 
Weighing  powers  with  limitations  I 
Facts  with  futile  aspirations 
Born  of  bracing  autumn  air. 
67 


AUTUMN. 

Now  I  see  myself  grown  famous, 
Bold  of  voice  and  free  of  gesture, 
Grave,  superb,  of  stunning  vesture 
Flood  with  eloquence  the  court. 
Soon  ascends  my  Gaudeamus 
As  I  realize  there  are  n't 
Any  facts  that  seem  to  warrant 
Premonitions  of  that  sort. 

Welcome  each  hallucination : 

Welcome,  none  the  less,  discerning 
Common  sense  in  time  returning 

To  obliterate  the  spell. 
As  a  means  of  elevation  — 
As  a  sort  of  moral  derrick 
This  autumnal,  atmospheric 
Spirit-hoister  bears  the  bell. 


REMORSE. 

MY  spirit  sits  in  ashes,  heaping  dust  upon  its  head ; 
I  Ve  said  a  silly  thing,  and  now  it  cannot  be  unsaid. 
What  boots  it  that  to  only  two   the  wretched   truth  is 

known, 
If  of  the  conscious  pair  who  know  it  I  myself  am  one  ? 

I  have  my  doubts  —  more  doubts  the  more  I  think  of  what 

I  said  — 

If,  really,  half  a  loaf  is  so  much  better  than  no  bread ; 
For  if  a  person  is  an  ass,  and  duly  bound  to  show  it, 
Cold  comfort  't  is  that  he  should  have  just  sense  enough  to 

know  it. 


HUMPTY  DUMPTY. 

THEY  say  that  folks  who  perch  upon  the  brink 
Of  canon  deep  or  awful  precipice 
A  morbid  impulse  feel  as  back  they  shrink, 

To  jump  the  edge  off  into  the  abyss ; 
And  now  and  then  some  feather-head  will  dash 
Over  the  cliff  to  fundamental  smash. 
So  often  with  a  man  when  he  has  won 

The  passing  favor  of  a  maid  demure, 
Not  satisfied  with  having  well  begun, 

And  over-eager  to  make  all  secure, 
Blind  to  his  fate  and  heedless  of  his  stops, 
With  mad,  spasmodic  previousness,  he  pops. 

Poor,  dizzy  fool ;  instead  of  winning  more 

He  only  loses  what  he  had  before. 


RETIREMENT. 

NAY,  do  not  ask  why  I  who  late 
First  in  the  giddy  throng  disported, 
Now  choose  the  solitary  state 

And  live  alone  unmissed,  uncourted. 
Is  it  so  strange  that  sometimes  man 

His  own  poor  company  should  cherish  ? 
Must  I  go  on  as  I  began 

And  dance,  whoever  pipes,  or  perish  ? 

It  may  be  that  some  stocks  I  had 

At  lower  figures  now  are  quoted. 
It  may  be  that  my  liver  's  bad ; 

It  may  be  that  my  tongue  is  coated. 
It  may  be  that  malarial  pains 

Are  of  the  ills  my  flesh  inherits  — 
That  fever  rages  in  my  veins 

And  chills  disintegrate  my  spirits. 
7* 


RETIREMENT. 

It  may  be  that  my  friends  are  dead ; 

It  may  be  that  my  foes  are  not ; 
Colds  may  have  settled  in  my  head, 

My  coppers  may  be  always  hot. 
It  may  be  that  I  feel  above 

My  peers,  and  think  myself  a  swell ; 
It  may  be  that  I  'm  crossed  in  love ; 

It  may  be  that  I  will  not  tell. 

I  own  I  find  a  mean  relief, 

Confining  to  myself  my  dealings ; 
A  cheap  community  of  grief 

Between  me  and  my  battered  feelings, 
I  shun  the  haunts  of  happier  men ; 

Their  mirth  my  misery  increases; 
My  little  bark  is  wrecked  again 

And  I  am  busy  with  the  pieces. 


SELF-SACRIFICE. 

SHE  said,  "  I  admire  and  approve  you, 
My  intellect's  voice  is  for  you ; 
But  when  you  entreat  me  to  love  you, 

I  own  I  'm  at  loss  what  to  do. 
How  I  wish  that  on  one  or  the  other 

My  heart  and  my  head  might  agree ; 

I  esteem  you  so  much  !  but  —  Oh,  bother ! 

My  heart's  choice  is  Barney  McGee." 

Which  the  reason  is  why  dissipation 

Has  ravaged  the  bloom  from  my  cheek, 
And  nothing  but  liquid  damnation 

Has  slipped  past  my  lips  for  a  week. 
Since,  I  hope,  as  depravity  marks  me, 

To  make  him  by  contrast  so  shine 
That  all  her  approval  may  his  be, 

And  her  love  irretrievably  mine. 


73 


WHAT   HE   WANTS   IN   HIS. 

I  DO  not  ask  thee,  Fate,  to  bake 
For  me  so  very  large  a  cake ; 
Choose  thou  the  size  —  but  I  entreat 
That  though  but  small,  it  shall  be  sweet. 
Let  those  who  like  it  have  it,  I 
Feel  no  desire  for  sawdust  pie. 

I  have  no  wail  for  all  the  years 

I  Ve  lived  on  crusts  washed  down  with  tears. 

If  I  must  drain  the  bitter  cup 

As  heretofore,  why  —  fill  it  up. 

But  when  my  cake,  if  ever,  comes, 
Vouchsafe  it  to  me  full  of  plums  ! 


74 


BE   KIND   TO   THYSELF. 

COMES  the  message  from  above  — 
"  As  thyself,  thy  neighbor,  love." 
With  myself  so  vexed  I  grow  — 
Of  my  weakness  weary  so, 
Easier  may  I  tolerate 
My  neighbor  than  myself  not  hate. 

Take  not  part  of  thee  for  whole, 

Thou  art  neighbor  to  thy  soul; 

The  ray  from  heaven  that  gilds  the  clod 
Love  thou,  for  it  comes  from  God. 

Bear  thou  with  thy  human  clay 

Lest  thou  miss  the  heaven-sent  ray. 


75 


LOST   LIGHT. 

I  CANNOT  make  her  smile  come  back  - 
That  sunshine  of  her  face 
That  used  to  make  this  worn  earth  seem, 

At  times,  so  gay  a  place. 
The  same  dear  eyes  look  out  at  me ; 

The  features  are  the  same ; 
But,  oh,  the  smile  is  out  of  them, 
And  I  must  be  to  blame  ! 

Sometimes  I  see  it  still.     I  went 

With  her  the  other  day 
To  meet  a  long-missed  friend,  and  while 

We  still  were  on  the  way, 
Her  confidence  in  waiting  love 

Brought  back  for  me  to  see 
The  old-time  love-light  to  her  eyes 

That  will  not  shine  for  me. 
76 


LOST  LIGHT. 

They  tell  me  money  waits  for  me, 

And  reputation,  too. 
I  like  those  gewgaws  quite  as  well 

As  other  people  do, 
But  I  care  not  for  what  I  have, 

Nor  lust  for  what  I  lack 
One  tithe  as  much  as  my  heart  longs 

To  call  that  lost  light  back. 

Come  back,  dear  banished  smile,  come  back, 

And  into  exile  drive 
All  thoughts,  and  aims,  and  jealous  hopes, 

That  in  thy  stead  would  thrive. 
Who  wants  the  earth  without  its  sun, 

And  what  has  life  for  me 
That  's  worth  a  thought,  if,  as  its  price, 

It  leaves  me  stript  of  thee  ? 


77 


DATED  -FEBRUARY   THE    i4TH.J 

/~)  LEST  be  St.  Valentine,  his  day, 

J  J    That  gives  a  man  a  chance  to  say 

What  shall  his  state  of  mind  disclose, 

As  much  as  though  he  should  propose. 

DEAR  MAID  :  I  'd  offer  you  this  minute 
My  hand,  but  lo  !  there  's  nothing  in  it. 
Enmeshed  my  heart  by  your  dear  lures  is, 
But  I  'm  forbid  to  ask  where  yours  is. 

And  why  ?     Why,  dear,  at  twenty-three 
A  man  is  what  he  's  going  to  be ; 
Futures  are  actual  in  one's  head, 
But  /.mess  is  what  women  wed. 
Clients  nor  patients,  nor  their  fees, 
Your  slave  at  three-and-twenty  sees, 
And  girls  with  nineteen-year-old  blushes 
Are  birds  he  must  leave  in  the  bushes. 
78 


DATED   "FEBRUARY    THE 


Yet  somehow  feelings  don't  agree 
With  circumstances  :   Look  at  me 
With  naught  in  hand  and  all  to  get, 
Rapping  at  Fortune's  gate  —  and  yet 
In  spite  of  all  I  know,  and  see, 
And  listen  to,  I  could  not  be 
More  hopelessly  in  love  with  you 
If  I  were  rich  and  sixty-two. 

That  's  all  :   It  's  nothing  that  you  '11  find 
Important,  but  it  's  off  my  mind. 
If  one  must  boil  and  keep  it  hid 
The  long  year  through,  to  blow  the  lid 
Off  once  helps  some,  and  one  may  gain 
Patience  therefrom  to  stand  the  pain 
Until  the  calendar's  advance 
Gives  suffering  hearts  another  chance. 


79 


LOOKING   ON. 

THE  dolcefar  niente  is  a  delightful  game 
If  only  he  can  spare  the  time  who  plays  it. 
If  one  is  three-and-twenty  and  does  n't  covet  fame, 
And  cares  less  what  he  says  than  how  he  says  it  — 
If  one  deliberately  can  (and  never  think  it  loss) 
Earn  women's  smiles  in  hours   in  which  he  might  be 

earning  dross  — 

If  one  can  be  content  to  sit  and  watch,  year  after  year, 
The  world's  great  ships  go  sailing  by,  and  never  want  to 

steer  — 

If  one  is  not  aware  that  standing  still  means  slipping  back, 
Or  if  one  's  not  averse  to  retrograding  on  one's  track  — 
The  dolcefar  niente  is  a  delightful  game 
For  people  who  have  lives  to  spare  to  play  it. 


So 


REVULSION. 

THE  very  bones  of  me  rebel ; 
I  cannot  be  resigned ; 
I  am  so  all-too-tired-to-tell, 

Of  being  so  refined. 
My  instincts  are  too  nasty  nice, 

I  'd  rather  be  more  brute, 
And  not  so  easy  to  disgust, 
And  difficult  to  suit. 

My  fun  is  all  a  razor-edge 

And  needle-point  affair, 
That  has  no  substance  back  of  it. 

My  very  woes  are  spare, 
And  decorous,  and  qualified. 

A  robust  grief  to  me, 
With  groans,  and  tears,  and  takings  on, 

Would  be  a  luxury. 

81 


REVULSION. 

I  vow  I  'm  going  to  learn  to  chew, 

And  navy  plug,  what  's  more ; 
I  'm  going  to  wear  a  gingham  shirt, 

And  spit  right  on  the  floor. 
Cravats  and  collars  I  '11  abjure, 

A  slouch  shall  be  my  hat, 
My  diet  pork,  with  cabbage  (boiled), 

And  beer  —  bock-beer  at  that ! 

I  '11  learn  to  drive  a  speedy  nag, 

And  laugh  a  boisterous  laugh ; 
To  down  men  bluntly  in  dispute, 

Or  shut  them  up  with  chaff. 
I  'd  go  to  Congress  if  I  could, 

And  since  I  can't  go  there, 
I  'd  gladly  be  an  alderman 

Or  even  run  for  mayor. 

I  cannot  stand  it  any  more, 

My  culture  's  not  the  stuff; 
For  though  it  's  pretty  to  be  nice, 

It  's  wholesome  to  be  tough. 
Perhaps  when  I  've  grown  coarser-grained, 

I  '11  have  less  cause  to  sigh, 
At  finding  that  my  fellows  have 

So  much  more  fun  than  I. 


FOLGER. 

HE  died  in  harness,  like  the  brave 
Old  warrior  he  was,  who  dared 
To  lead  a  hopeless  charge,  nor  spared 
His  strength,  nor  sought  himself  to  save. 

His  learning  freights  the  lawyer's  shelf; 
Praise  him  who  played  so  high  a  part ! 
But  honor  more  the  loyal  heart 
That  calmly  sacrificed  itself. 

It  is  not  ours  to  choose  what  prize 
Our  manhood's  hopes  shall  satisfy ; 
That  we  must  leave  to  destiny, 
And  work  out  that  which  in  us  lies, 

Content,  if  justly  may  be  carved 
Upon  the  slab  our  dust  that  guards, 
Not  a  mere  list  of  earth's  rewards, 
But  nobler  tribute,  this  :   "He  served." 

83 


GRANT. 

NO  faultless  man  was  he  whose  work  is  done. 
It  is  not  giv'n  men  to  be  wholly  wise: 
Still  shall  our  deeds  be  sometimes  ill-advised, 
While  in  our  veins  still  human  blood  shall  run. 
But  sundered  States,  now  one  again,  attest 
That  what  he  gave  his  country  was  his  best. 

'Spoiled  of  his  fortune,  rifled  of  his  ease, 

Above  all  ills  his  stubborn  spirit  rose. 

Declining  proffered  affluence,  he  chose  — 

Though  wrung  with  pain  and  weakened  by  disease  — 
That  his  own  shoulders  should  support  the  weight 
Of  woe  laid  on  them  by  ungentle  fate. 

The  silent  soldier  ;  not  with  fulsome  gaud 

May  we  oppress  the  chaplet  that  he  wears. 

Freed  from  his  pain,  nor  hears  he  now  nor  cares 

If  men  his  fame  disparage  or  applaud. 

Of  his  renown  be  this  the  mighty  meed  — 
He  served  his  country  in  his  country's  need. 
84 


AD  SODALES. 

Read  at  a  supper  of  the  Class  of  1877,  Harvard  College, 
June  27,  1882. 

IS  it  a  dream  !     Can  it  be  true 
That  we,  un galled  by  business  fetters, 
Four  careless  years  once  loitered  through, 

Sojourners  in  the  home  of  letters  ! 
Beyond  a  doubt  it  is  a  fact 

Well  ascertained  and  well  attested  : 
The  classic  shades,  though  not  intact, 
Are  still  the  shades  that  we  infested. 

Across  from  Holyoke  House  still  bloom 

Horse-chestnut  trees  with  fragrant  blossom ; 
Old  Jarvis  Field  is  still  the  home 

Of  balls,  and  men  who  love  to  toss  'em. 
The  shriek  of  car-wheel  rounding  curve, 

The  listener's  blood  still  duly  curdles ; 
Their  graceful  height  the  elms  preserve, 

Oblivious  to  their  tarry  girdles. 

85 


AD    SODALES. 

And  still  across  the  winding  Charles 

Come  shells,  and  smells,  and  rapid  barges ; 
The  Freshman  still,  in  force  at  Carl's, 

His  knowledge  of  the  world  enlarges. 
The  Sophomore  is  still  assured 

That  wisdom  with  himself  shall  perish ; 
To  Clubs  the  Junior  still  is  lured ; 

Still  tender  fancies  Seniors  cherish. 

But  yesterday,  and  we,  like  these, 

Were  nursing  our  jejune  affections, 
And  putting  in  for  our  degrees, 

And  squabbling  over  class  elections. 
That  Class  Day  night, —  the  window-seat, 

From  which  all  thought  of  else  was  banished 
While  She  sat  there,  so  dear  —  so  sweet  — 

Ah  !  since  that  night  five  years  have  vanished  ! 

Another  grinds  where  once  we  ground  ; 

Another  loafs  where  once  we  idled  ; 
And  others  still  cavort  around 

With  spirits  —  like  our's  were  —  unbridled. 
New  fellows  now  presume  to  woo 

New  girls,  whose  charms  we  never  wot  of; 
New  scouts  there  are  and  goodies  too, 

A  whole  new  world  that  we  are  not  of. 

86 


AD    SODALES. 

But  still,  when  dismal  howls  the  wind, 

And  sweeps  the  rain  in  gusts  and  flurries, 
When  he  who  walks  looks  not  behind 

But  turns  his  collar  up  and  hurries, — 
On  certain  granite  blocks  is  brought 

To  light,  an  ancient  legend,*  showing 
Where,  in  the  days  we  knew,  't  was  thought 

The  University  was  going. 

And  was  it  going  there,  or  can 

There  truly  be  a  place  infernal 
Where  Justice  takes  it  out  of  man 

For  transient  sins  by  pains  eternal  ? 
I  do  not  know  !     It  is  not  worth 

One's  while  to  disinter  dead  issues ; 
I  know  that  what  make  Hell  of  Earth 

Are  weakened  wills  and  worn-out  tissues. 

And  to  these  mundane  hells,  they  say, 
The  paths  that  lead  at  first  are  cheerful 

And  bright,  but  further  on,  the  way, 
If  still  pursued,  grows  dark  and  fearful. 

*  NOTE. —  On  the  front  of  University  Hall  appeared  one  morn 
ing  the  inscription,  "  The  University  is  Going  to  Hell."  It  was 
scrubbed  off,  but  is  still  legible  in  damp  weather. 

87 


AD    SODALES. 

It  may  be  some  of  us  did  get 

Too  far  along  —  I  do  not  say  so  — 

But  —  Well !  we  '11  do  to  pray  for  yet : 
We  are  survivors  :   let  us  stay  so. 

The  voices  of  the  gentlest  tone, 

The  truest  eyes,  and  hearts  the  kindest ; 
The  minds  most  conscious  of  their  own 

Shortcomings,  and  to  ours  the  blindest ; 
Ah  !  one  by  one,  and  year  by  year, 

Beneath  the  graveyard's  grassy  hummocks 
We  see  them  laid,  and  we  meet  here, 

Worse  men,  perhaps,  with  better  stomachs. 

Death,  Flaccus  says,  with  equal  kick 

Salutes  the  door  of  prince  and  peasant ; 
Nor  comes  he  slower  or  more  quick 

If  life  be  burdensome  or  pleasant. 
'T  is  fit  that  in  his  steps  should  tread 

Sweet  Charity,  the  all-forgiving 
Nil  nisi  bonum  of  the  dead  : 

Be  all  our  censure  for  the  living. 

We,  who  are  left,  be  ours  to  keep 
Our  harnesses  from  getting  rusty; 

What  wit  we  have  from  going  to  sleep ; 
Our  wisdom  from  becoming  musty : 


AD   SODALES. 

To  catch  the  rein  our  fellow  drops, 
Mount,  and  in  action  growing  bolder, 

Reck  not  that  at  the  crupper  stops 

His  Care  with  ours,  behind  our  shoulder. 

And  though  we  realize  what  dross 

And  fleeting  things  our  hearts  are  set  on  ; 
How  much  of  seeming  gain  is  loss; 

How  many  truths  we  dare  not  bet  on ; 
Regret  the  protoplastic  germs 

That  launched  us  in  this  higgle  piggle, 
And  feel  ourselves  but  wriggling  v/orms, 

Still,  being  worms, —  do  let  us  wriggle. 

Who  scorns,  for  aught  the  world  can  give, 

To  stoop  to  lie,  or  trick,  or  juggle  ; 
Who  knows  that  he  has  got  to  live 

Though  only  pain  rewards  the  struggle ; 
Who  nurses  to  their  fullest  growth 

The  talents  to  his  care  committed, 
And  runs  his  race,  and  nothing  loath, 

Be  he  who  may  against  him  pitted, — 

He  acts  the  man,  and  though  the  prize 
May  not  reward  his  long  endeavor ; 

Though  at  the  goal  which  lured  his  eyes 
He  comes  too  late,  perhaps,  or  never ; 
89 


AD    SODALES. 

Still  day  by  day  by  what  he  does 
He  forms  the  fact  by  which  to  grade  him. 

'T  was  not  Sardanapalus,  't  was 
Leonidas,  whose  venture  paid  him. 

Perhaps  your  poet's  jester's  cap 

But  ill  conceals  a  care-worn  wrinkle  ; 
The  bells  he  rattles  have,  mayhap, 

Too,  too  lugubrious  a  tinkle  ; 
Fill  then  each  glass,  and  join  with  me 

In  wine  for  just  such  uses  given, 
To  whoop  her  up,  with  three-times  three 

And  bumpers  all  for  Seventy-Seven  ! 

Our  Alma  Mater's  naughty  child, 

Whose  conscience  never  seemed  to  quicken ; 
Whom  even  now  she  calls  her  wild- 

Est,  most  disreputable  chicken  : 
Whose  conduct  with  a  wish  to  please 

Had  seldom  much  that  was  in  keeping ; 
Who  sowed,  Ah  me  !  a  lively  breeze, — 

Heaven  send  no  whirlwinds  for  our  reaping,  - 

But  grant  that  while  our  heads  grow  cool, 
Our  hearts  beat  still  a  genial  patter ; 

That  with  increased  regard  for  rule, 

And  pocketbooks  grown  somewhat  fatter, 


AD    SODALES. 

The  sluggish  mass  of  things  to  be 

May  find  in  us  a  sprightly  leaven  ; 
To  make  it  lighter  and  more  free. 

—  the  Class  of  Seventy-Seven. 


91 


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